Everything He Isn't
by rebeldesigns
Summary: George wasn't Fred, nor would he ever be. Angelina never thought any less of him for it.


**Author's Note:** I've been dying to sit down and write a proper George/Angelina fic for ages, but have never gotten the time. I admit that I've shipped Angie/Fred, and was sort of put off when I read that JK had Angelina marry George in the end. After a while (and lots of George/Ange-centric fics later) I'm convinced that it was meant to be. So I'm venturing out of my Supernaural-dom to take a look into the Potterverse through _my_ colored lenses.

It's a story of how George is viewed through Angelina's eyes, and the specific reasons _why_ she loves him. A oneshot, no less. It's a little different than my other fics, more mature and less (read: nonexistent) fun(ny). But this plot string has been dangling in front of my brain for far too long and I've decided to pursue it for the sake of my sanity and my school grades. Forgive the rambling, it's a technique ("stream of consciousness" is the technical term) that I tend to use when I try to write deep (and which I usually fail at. Miserably).

Feedback is always cuddled with. I want to know whether I'm hot or cold. And now, before I burst into a startlingly disturbing rendition of Katy Perry's "Hot n' Cold"…

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Don't shoot! Thank you. Rated **T** for pervasive language, and dark(ish) themes.

**Pairing: **George x Angelina

**Rating:** T for language, themes

_**Everything He Isn't**_

He doesn't seem to fully realize that she loves him because he's _him_, not Fred.

It was always Fred and George, not George and Fred. Second, even if only by a margin… Second-loved and secondhand. So why should he be first in this?

She compares and contrasts them in the darker corner of her psyche, it is true, but not out of the desire that one could somehow turn into the other; she would never wish that. But she loves everything about him, in spite of, or perhaps because of, her connection to his twin.

But she loves the way _he_ smiles, almost bashfully, it seems, with barely-there dimples gently denting each freckled cheek, one corner down as if half his face is frowning at the world. She loves the way he laughs; they are few and far between these days, but sometimes, when she least expects it, an unguarded sound of mirth escapes those curved lips of his, making her stomach swoop in a way that she thought she only felt around the other twin. She loves the way he still winks at her sometimes, just like the good old days, where the only things on their minds were Quidditch, making mischief, and Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. No Umbridge. No Voldemort. No end of the fucking world as we know it.

She loves his eyes, cannot stop gazing up at them, wondering at how they are so different, but so like Fred's. They are the same clear azure as his twin's, but without all the roguish twinkle and confident cockiness; instead, she finds a somber maturity and grief hidden in their depths that darkens yet heightens the intensity of his gaze. It unnerves her. It thrills her.

She loves the way he smells. When they hug, clinging together as if they were two shipwrecked survivors caught in the deadly maelstrom, she buries her face into the crook of his neck and inhales. Fred smelled of cologne. Cinnamon. The faint hint of singed clothing. George smells of peppermint chewing gum. Salty tears. Whiskey. She doesn't know why, but the smell makes her sad and allured all at once.

She loves the way he kisses her. Fred was passionate, demanding, forceful, wanting to take it all at once and still come back for more. He left her breathless, weak at the knees, with bruised lips and late night trysts in the many secret corridors of Hogwarts that made her flush with embarrassment and self-satisfaction whenever they made eye contact the next morning. And he would tease her about it, too, the cheeky bastard. But George is an experimental kisser, dizzying her with his skillful contrast of sharp, vigorous bursts and slow, painfully sweet respites. He is neither ravenous nor tender; his seemingly indecisiveness frustrates her, but she always comes back for more. He has a different, hidden passion, she discovers, one that simmers just below his skin, driving him onward, yet holding him back.

She loves the way he watches out for his brother, constantly his shadow, even in death. He works his fingers to the bone, night and day, day and night, constantly churning out new inventions for their joke shop and yet refusing to remove their older products from the shelves, as if that will somehow preserve his brother's memory. He goes to the graveyard every Tuesday and Friday, each time with a new bouquet of flowers. Sometimes they're carnations, sometimes daisies and lilies. The stalks are slightly crumpled, but he knows Fred wouldn't mind.

She hates the way they stare at him with thinly veiled fixation, as if expecting him to fall apart at the seams, or shatter into a thousand pieces at the slightest hint of the name of the person who is missing so drastically from his life. It's not unlike a severed limb; they expect him to be unable to function without him. She wants to protect him from that feeling, but somehow she thinks that Fred would want his twin to make that quantum leap on his own. So she steps away, two steps back for his one step forward, trying the whole 'give the grieving some space' thing. She despises herself for it.

She loves the way he whispers her name after they lie in the bed afterwards, neither one quite willing to let go of the other. He makes it sound like both a curse and a prayer, as if this Angelina is really an Archangel, sent down both to be his savior and to exact revenge on his transgression. It's ironic, really. It feels to him that every moment he spends with her is another moment with the one of the things he and Fred had in common. So why does such pain come from such a wonderful feeling?

She loves his body, of course; his freckles and fiery ginger locks, his skinny little arse and his missing ear, the latter of which he never tried to hide from view (although she wishes the same could be said about his arse). She's memorized the scars on his chest and back and abdomen and arms and tries to kiss them away—scars from childhood, some from experiments gone bad, some from the war, some self-inflicted. She knows them by touch, instinctively, and cannot help the rise of emotion she feels sometimes as she mutely traces along the ridges, although she knows he would hate her if she pitied him in any way.

She hates the way he cries. It's completely silent, tears spilling down his cheeks and glistening there accusingly, eyes closed tight as if he could open them and the world would tilt backwards on its axis and revert to the way things were. Before. His moments of anguish are stolen and furtive, chosen in the dead of night when he thinks she is sleeping or isn't watching. But she watches, and catches every repressed sob, every range of emotion that flickers across his face, more telling than any Sneakoscope. She _wants_ him to yell out, shake his fists towards the heavens or scream his throat bloody or grab a chair and smash it through window or take his wand and blast his room to smithereens instead of telling everyone he's good, he's great, he's fan-fucking-tastic, how about you?—but he doesn't. So she does it for him.

She loves how he tells her he loves her, even though she notices how he says it without ever quite meeting her eyes, as if he would be struck down by a bolt of lightning on the spot for even considering the fact that he's snogged shagged in love with engaged to his dead twin brother's ex-girlfriend. She hates it, but she loves it.

He thinks she loves him because he's everything Fred was.

She loves him because he's everything Fred wasn't.

**A/N:** Sooo?? I wrote this in the course of about three hours, so it's not up to usual par, I suppose (that is, if I even had a par), so just click teh pretty review button and show me what you think! Hopefully this is a segue to bridge the loonnnggg gap between updates for my Supernatural fics.


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